


The love I felt

by behzaintfunny



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: (....unrequited to an extent!), Fever Dreams, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Lovesickness, M/M, Multi, Self-Reflection, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: "They remind him of the freckles that adorn Jamie's face, constantly shifting and moving but always there, something he had never had the courage to ask of him. Don't leave. Don't go. These are the words of a foolish boy, not a proud representative of the Crown.Those are the words of a man so helplessly in love it shall run him right into the ground."





	The love I felt

**Author's Note:**

> "I hated him for as long as I could. But then I realized that loving him…that was part of me, and one of the best parts. It didn't matter that he couldn't love me, that had nothing to do with it. But if I could not forgive him, then I could not love him, and that part of me was gone. And I found eventually that I wanted it back." - Lord John Grey, Drums of Autumn

Having a big, honest heart with so much love to give proved to be his first grave mistake out of many.

His fighting spirit and romantic soul are not a match made in heaven, that much has always been certain. If anything, John only ever wanted to be like everybody else. The pride he felt when he first wore the beautiful red coat and everything it symbolises, albeit his brother's, too big for his own body still, was immense, as Hal looked down on him with the one love he had never had to suffer for. His brother was there with him, and everything was good.

Of course, Hal had not been there much.

It's simple, of course, having to fulfil your duty before the Crown. John had always considered Hal to be a man of honour, and said honour had consistently been for the best interest of their family just as much as it was for England. He could easily forgive Hal for leaving so often because he understood that it had to have been done. John, too, was honourable after all.

John first saw his brother in a different light when he first returned home from quite the nasty fight, bloodied and beaten, but not at all resigned. It brought Hal joy to have been seen in such a state, battered and ruined but still alive and breathing for the Crown, a genuine smile on his face. John cried himself to sleep that night, dreams filled with the image of blood oozing out of Hal's mouth as he grinned relentlessly. The thing that scared him most is not the gore but the realization that he did not fear the man Hal has become, but the boy he used to know and love, forsaken and forgotten. John had never admitted it to anyone, not even the God that judged him.

It was a one time occurrence. He was never going to be weak for anyone he loved again.

He didn't believe it, and no one would. The path to hell is founded on lies, and he has many years still to pave it with much more grave sins than the simple weakness of the heart.

On the morrow following his twelfth birthday, he buried his father. Nothing was ever truly the same.

His mother changed, and so did Hal. He felt as though he were an intruder in his own house, an all too clear memory of the late Duke of Pardloe that shall never see the man his son will grow to be.

It didn't surprise him much when Hal told him he is to leave the family house immediately, but it still hurt. The sorrow John felt was all too fresh and he knew he would soon be deprived of the closure he so desperately sought.

"Must I leave?" John spoke quietly, eyes boring into Hal's own. He saw Hal swallow, felt the tension running down his entire body as his hand captured John's shoulder, "I want to stay here with you."

"It's better this way. You should be granted the chance to start over," Hal told him, "It's best if I stay here and continue on my path while you carve yours elsewhere. You have yet so much to win, not to lose. You mustn't dwell on the past any longer."

"Father wouldn't have wanted me to leave my family!" John screamed, and his whole body shook with the power of the sob tearing at his insides, "He wouldn't have wanted me to abandon you like a--" he stuttered on the word that shamed him far more than his father's death ever could, "like a coward."

"Oh, but you're no coward!" Hal stood from his seat to embrace John in a hug, something he would miss gravely for years to come, "You're the bravest boy I know and will grow to be a great man. Most importantly, you are my brother. You will always have a place in my hearth but you must leave now."

"You will visit me, right?" John pulled at the sides of his older brother's coat, "Promise me, Hal!"

"Whenever I can," Hal replied with a gentle smile.

John knew at the time it was a lie forged merely to appease him, but it soothed his worries nonetheless as his family home grew further, further, and further.

Hal was a fatherly figure to him, and he would lay down his life for him. All John knew is that he was not forced to leave his family home because he wasn't loved. Hal made sure he were to never forget that. He didn't understand why Hal couldn't keep him at his side, though. Because surely, what harm could ever be done to him when Hal's protecting him?

It would take him years still to understand that Hal has only ever made him live with his mother's family to protect him. So that he may live as Lord John William Grey for years to come, not hide under the shame his father's death put upon his family.

He and Hal would lie under the night sky together on the rare occasions when he visited, speaking of nothing and everything all the while staring at the sky so far away from them. It would be during those nights that John felt true peace, didn't need to worry about the war that is coming nor the duty he has to fulfill. It was just him and Hal, as it always had been.

It was almost, _almost_ home.

John picked at loose strands of grass that had gone astray, twisting them inbetween his fingertips as though they held the answers to his every question. Hal always kept on talking unless interrupted, a calming presence at John's side. It's during these nights that John felt that maybe he and Hal aren't that different after all, that their differences mean nothing in the grand scheme of things because they will always be brothers.

It was an unpleasant thought. John didn't like to dwell on it much.

"Do you think anyone will ever love me?" he asked the moonlit sky, so quiet he could have pretended not to have said it altogether.

"Of course," Hal said, startling John just a little bit, "There's a time for everything. You're still so young, you have no idea what your life will be like. And when it happens, I'm sure she'll be the luckiest girl in the world."

"What if he doesn't want to love me back?" he looked Hal in the eye, the words coming out of his mouth before he could force them back, "What if it's too dangerous? I'm not worth anyone risking their life over me."

Hal was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed, one foot tapping at the soil and grass. John let go of the strands of grass in his hand when he realized that perhaps not all questions can be answered.

"If he loves you -- _truly_ loves you -- then there is nothing in the world that could stop him from loving you," Hal told him, looking him straight in the eye as if to make him believe, "Love is not easy. It's hard, painful, and you will always know it as such. But-- I think it's worth it in the end. You'll come to learn that, too, little brother."

"Why does it have to hurt?"

Hal smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes, "Because it's real."

For now, that was enough.

The soft glimmer of stars lulled him to sleep, and he dreamed of walking the streets of London hand in hand with the man he loved. There was a beauty in that dream so unfathomable John couldn't possibly understand it yet, but he knew he shall only ever see it amidst his dreams. Kept away in secret in the depths of his mind where all sinful dreams shall be locked away until the end of time. He felt Hal picking him up and carrying him to bed, but he had no mind to tell him anything.

For the first time in his life, he felt as though there could be nothing more said.

Hal was gone come tomorrow, but not the hope he had ignited inside John's heart. Hope for a better tomorrow, a better life, a better world, even.

The eve before the battle at Prestonpans, he realized he was not going into it as John, the Colonel's younger brother, but as John William Grey, the soldier. No one at the battlefield will spare a thought at who he is or what he represents, only the red colour of his coat thrown over his uniform.

In a way, it was somewhat exhilerating.

During that memorable night, he would meet James Fraser. A man of great fame indeed, a legend amongst the Scots John couldn't begin to understand. He had hoped to find him when he least expected it, cut his throat and run. Hector would have seen him in a different light then, surely, and so would the entire British army. It was simply not a chance one could miss.

To say he failed miserably at completing the task is an understatement. That cursed night haunted him for years to come, the shame James Fraser put upon his name so great it kept him awake during many nights, until years later it was replaced by a whole different shame entirely.

Though that night shamed him far worse than anything he had ever been accused of, his honour all but battered, it felt as though it was a new beginning. John was not yet sure what that entailed.

He was cold that night. Very cold, and greatly lonely.

A group of soldiers found him come morning, just as Fraser had predicted, bound to a tree and fuming with supressed anger. Hector was with them. Their eyes met, even from the distance that was quite evident, as did their smiles.

Hector was the only one not to laugh at his apparent distress. John had a fleeting feeling that perhaps he understood what Hal had talked of under the moonlit sky during a much more peaceful time. Love, and it being worth all the suffering one can endure, even if only it meant to see him smile again.

Hector's love was gentle.

John had never known gentleness before, and he shall never know it as such again. It's a curse and a blessing, a sinner's most craved gift, but he was always willing to step one step further into hell if it meant getting to kiss him again. He did everything he could to impress but it was worth the trouble when Hector, his Hector, smiled at him like this.

Deep inside, he knew it couldn't have lasted. That didn't stop him from basking in the pleasure while it lasted, fleeting as it may be. The looming feeling of upcoming battle was nothing compared to the love he felt. For once, honour be damned.

For there was nothing honourable about what they were doing, and yet that did not stop them in the slightest. John had his doubts, uncertain whether his heart would end up being the death of him, but they all evaporated kiss after kiss, as it became clear he has found something precious he needed to hold onto. Hector was his first love, and he loved him fiercely.

They ran away before Culloden, if only for a few minutes stolen away that weren't even theirs to take. It wasn't because of the battle that was yet to come, no, John would never in his life run from battle, especially one so important as this one.

They ran away because he could not bear everyone's eyes on them anymore. Spiteful, judgemental, some even innocent - it was all too much. John realized that if he were to keep this up any longer, he'd have to learn to hide better.

Of course, that would only be the case if he survived the following day, woke up to see another sun rise over the wretched Culloden Moor. Not even that was certain.

"Do you think we'll survive?" he asked Hector that night, back snug against a tree, as though he really held all the answers in the world. Perhaps John should have known better.

"I don't know," Hector sighed, hand capturing John's own, "They say this is to be the bloodiest battle Scotland will ever see. Maybe it's better if we don't see what comes after."

John worried his lip between his teeth, heart thumping inside his chest, nowhere near calm like he should be before the looming storm. It's not what his father taught him.

"I don't want to die, Hector," he regretted the words the moment they left his lips, but the damage was alas done. Hector smiled at him, a rather sad smile but one that lifted his spirits nonetheless.

"I know," Hector said quietly, allowing John's head to fall against his shoulder, carving his fingertips forever onto John's hand in an invisible masterpiece, "I know."

Hector was his first heartbreak, and yet his heart remained just as it was. He had never loved him more than the day they had been forced apart, never to meet or to love each other again. A part of John left this world with Hector's soul and body, never to be found again.

He would never reclaim that part. The gaping hole inside of him will take years to heal, but it shall all be worth it in the end.

That's what he used to tell himself at night, stealing glances at stars that shone so brightly yet so distantly. He never believed it but he didn't need to. Life always managed to get its way, as it was not for him to decide his fate.

For now, the sheer decision to watch the stars was enough. It calmed him down to the point of relative peace, and for years to come he would grow as a person. Hector would have been proud of him, and that alone mattered.

Lord John would redefine honour as he once knew it, forge it with utmost care so as to live life as he was always meant to. His heart full of feelings was not going to lead him to his grave as long as he was being careful.

Stolen kisses from men whose faces he would forget come morning were the only time he let his emotions show. It was easiest that way, to allow himself to lead or to be led into a temporary bliss that would deprive him of the looming feeling that he could not keep this up forever. He saw other men talking about their wives with reverence overshadowed by happiness, a shameful envy taking over him. He soon stopped seeking the precious relief, only when necessary, only to keep himself sane.

What cruel God rules over us that makes us this way? What force leads us into hiding even as we cry to be heard or to be seen? Lord John was never able to answer this question, to his utter fury.

He threw away his mother's rosary one cold night, under a cloudy sky that did not shine. He made sure never to attempt to find it, as it sank deep into the sea. He had forsaken his God, just as his God had forsaken him.

Lord John would soon learn that all care in the world be damned when the heart's calling is louder than anything else in the world. His heart only ever called for one thing.

_Love._

He was never sure when exactly he first started associating the word with Jamie Fraser, only that it was as obvious as anything to the point when it became natural. It truly is fascinating how much love affects us, forges us into someone we never thought we were.

Loving Jamie changed him. Perhaps his life would have panned out entirely differently had he not fallen for him. He'll never know.

In his dreams, albeit feverish, he sees the red auburn of Jamie's hair in the way the evening sun kisses bared branches of trees, towering over the horizon. The wind sings with the sound of his voice, all its rough edges evident in the whistling it creates against the tall grass. Magical as the cover of night may be, it holds no importance itself compared to the glimmer of starts in Jamie's eyes when they look ahead with an almost childish sort of hope. The hope Lord John himself had been deprived of years ago when he made it clear he was going to live true to who he has always been, or not live at all. Though, the two are seldom contradictory.

He wakes up with a startle and knocks over a goblet of water when he hears Jamie's laughter in his sleep, reserved as it may be, for the Highlander will never truly escape his head no matter how much time has passed. Time has changed them, surely, for better and worse alike, until all that was left was Lord John's bare heart for the taking, ready to be pulled apart by braw arms and sharp fingernails. _Take me apart_ , it screamed, and with it a silent wish never spoken aloud yet as clear as day. Jamie, of course, had never intended to take advantage of his position as the rightful owner of Lord John William Grey's heart, however honorable the title may be. He would hold it with gentle hands but never too gently, never so much as to make Lord John ask for it to go any further but never stopping him from thinking it. In all his cruelty, shamefully wept into the abyss of darkness in all the solitude Lord John could pray for, it had never even been his fault.

It has never been the snowflakes' fault that seasons change. Some things happen naturally, and though people think of themselves so highly they really are no different from the nature that bore them. That is no news to Lord John, who has had years to ponder the cruelties of God or whatever high force made him, him.

Soldiers were never meant to have hearts this big and so full of love, yet no one to share it with. Majors, no less.

He picks up the cup from where it had landed, weariness threatening to close his eyes but not unless he has any say in it. He twists it around in his hand reverently, the rough edges of the fine details boring silent stories into his fingertips. Moonlight shines through the window, no pane of glass eligible to stop the most beautiful of sights from gracing the bedchamber. It reflects in the small pool of water that has collected on the wooden floor, tiny droplets shining like stars in the infinite sky.

They remind him of the freckles that adorn Jamie's face, constantly shifting and moving but always there, something he had never had the courage to ask of him. _Don't leave. Don't go._ These are the words of a foolish boy, not a proud representative of the Crown.

Those are the words of a man so helplessly in love it shall run him right into the ground. The thought nags at the back of his head just as often as the image of Jamie's smile flashes alongside his most cherished memories.

He throws the goblet far into the distance, hearing it break against the wooden door with the same force with which the tears run down his face. All the tears he had shed not for Jamie but for the life he could have had, they could have had, together, all but naught in the grand scheme of things yet the most prominent worry in Lord John's mind for all these years.

He hears Jamie's voice again, practically feels the calloused edges of his fingertips brushing away his tears and the soft, quiet voice saying, "Dinna fash."

He only prays it truly were that easy.

His eyes open to truly see Jamie at his side, palpable and as real as one can be. His hair is down, just as John remembers it from their days in Scotland, and his brow is furrowed in an anxious manner. Jamie Fraser never was a man you could read the way books can be read, but Lord John had years to memorize the details of his face and decipher the sudden changes in emotion. He hates to be the reason for Jamie's worry. He truly detests that he put this worry inside Jamie's stomach, for there is a great deal of things more worthy of Jamie's attention than a sickly, dying Englishman.

 _He cannot die,_ he reminds himself. He cannot possibly put that blame and guilt on Jamie's already thoroughly heaved shoulders. He mustn't cause him any more sorrow than he already has.

Jamie has edged away, instead watching John from a safe distance to make sure all is well. John laughs, hollow as it may be, and his throat feels impeccably dry, as though flames are eating at it.

"Were you here the whole time?" he asks, aiming for playful, instead coming across as sad, hopeful, terrified.

Terrified of death, terrified to hear the words forming on Jamie's lips, terrified to possibly know their outcome.

"I never left," Jamie says gently, brushing away the beads of sweat that maim John's forehead, and his face lights up in a reserved smile, "I couldna."

He figures, this isn't a half bad way to die. It is not the honourable death he had always dreamed of, but so much more than that. Jamie granted him a chance for a peaceful passing, and that alone was his kindest gift of all.

John's hand seeks Jamie's where it lingers beside his face and, for once, it does not edge away. They allow themselves the silence and solitude they so badly crave. The worry has been lifted off of Jamie's face, instead replaced by a gentle smile. John is left at a loss for words but perhaps it is for the best. Yes, this is not a bad way to go whatsoever.

A small part of him hopes to wake up come morning to the same image before his own eyes. This tiny sparklet of hope is what keeps his heart beating throughout the night. Perhaps love is not as fatal as one might think, after all.

Perhaps it can heal, too.


End file.
